Wheel of Fortune
by HugAZombie
Summary: Distopia!AU. Unbeta'd. 'The new drug...More intense than an orgasm, she heard whispered on the streets, more of a thrill the kill. You become a god for the duration of its stay in your veins. You are invincible. You are ravenous. You are magic.' Minor Character Death
1. Prologue

_**Disclaimer:**__ I do not own Merlin, dammit. *Sobs*. It belongs to BBC._

_**Notes: **__New story. Distopia!AU. Gangster!Arthur Unbeta'd. This is just a prologue, it will probably be revised when I get the time. This will probably be dark. It will contain darker versions of the characters. It will involve drug usage and violence and probably character death. _

_So yeah, hope you enjoy, I will probably revise the last bit make it darker and more sinister, but I'm tired and just needed to get this idea down. Much love. _

_OOOOH, and the chapter titles are of Tarot cards. I use the meanings given to me by my teacher, and I will say some of the cards I use may have a different name (EG. The devil is called Temptation in my deck) I use the Tarot of the Witches, if anyone is interested _

_Enjoy._

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><p><strong>Prologue: King of Swords<strong>

"_A serious man who can be sarcastic and a bully."_

The office is warm in the late afternoon. Through the gaps in the blinds streams of the setting sun illuminates the room in a soft orange. Dust particles dance in the still air, twisting like snowflakes in a storm. The man behind the desk pays them no mind. Overhead a fan slices through the air in a constant cycle, threatening any fly or bee stupid enough to knick into it an unpleasant end. It hums a constant rhythm to the steady, methodical working of the man behind the desk. Sweat beads on his forehead just a little bit, gathering at his hairline in the humidity that the fan struggles to combat.

The desk he works at is impeccable. A slim stylish computer screen flickers into darkness after too long a time inactive, the default screensaver moving smoothly across the blackness. Other than a sharp, brass lamp – currently switched off, not much else lingers on the smooth oak surface. The wireless keyboard has been pushed to meets its screen so that the man has space to look over the small stack of manila folders and fat contracts. A single man lies within reach of his hand as the man sits back in his high backed leather chair, legs across as his eyes skim the pages in front of him.

A shrill, short ring screams into the room but the man does not jump, simply shifts in his seat, placing the now closed folder back on the stack it had come from. He cuts off the shriek from the machinery with the push of a button.

"Yes?" His voice is a low authoritative baritone, one that begs you to submit, to bow low and gain this man's approval.

"_Excuse me, Mister Pendragon but a Mister... Aredian is on line two." _The man, now identified as the Pendragon patriarch, nods although his assistant cannot see him, and cuts off the communication. He takes the phone in hand, stabbing the correct number on the base.

"Aredian."

"_Pendragon." _This man needed no manners, not when he could get the Pendragon senior what he so desperately wants. Uther is a man that will allow manners and respect slide in the chase for what he truly desires – which in this case is the bittersweet taste of revenge.

"You have her." It is not a question. Aredian would not be foolish enough to disturb him had his assignment not been completed. Uther had specified.

"_Yes. She is in the place you assigned."_

A cruel smirk colours the face of Pendragon. "Good. The money shall be wired to you immediately." There is no more conversation. All necessary words have been spoken and Uther puts the phone down. He leans back into his chair, his legs stretched out and that cruel smirk of dark victory toying on his lips.

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><p>The manacles around her wrist and ankles bite into her flesh, staining the snow white skin a rose red. Must look quite poetic, she thinks absently. Her arms ache from struggling when she first awakened; her soul hurts from the black crackle of energy that ebbs from the metal clawing her skin and seeping into her blood. Magic against the magical.<p>

For haters of magical being, they obviously do not mind applying magic for their own purposes. She wonders blindly who applied the magic, was the sorcerer a willing traitor or had they been coerced with lying promises of freedom? Her mind is dim, she knows but doesn't truly acknowledge. Work from the drug? Or the ache in her soul that squeezes her heart and makes her brain throb with the rhythm of her slowed heart beat.

How long has she been here? She can't even clearly remember the circumstances that lead her to be here. Blurred, hazy images ooze into her memory like venom, but nothing that makes sense. It annoys her, irritates her that she, she a faithful worshipper of the Old Religion, a High Priestess, was so easily overwhelmed.

Was it easily done? There is a low muscle memory of pain, fire thrumming through her veins like a birds' song but nothing in clarity. Like a child looking through a fogged window, she cannot grasp a distinct image of what had happened.

"Good evening Nimueh." Her name on those lips – she should've known. Her name is drawn out like a knife, sharp with a bitter hatred that has yet to be blunted by time.

"You were hard to find, but eventually I bested you."

Her laugh is a breathy cackle. "You bested no one, Uther Pendragon. Your lap dog caught me unawares. Hardly a glowing victory." She coughs a little. "You never have won a fair battle."

"You fight snakes with snakes, deceit with deceit."

"Magicked manacles," Nimueh licks her lips in a vain attempt to bring some relief to her throat. Her words are throaty, harsh. "Not so adverse to magic when it's used for your purposes, are you?"

There is no movement, and Nimueh finds it difficult to pinpoint the man's position in the room. It's dark, blindingly dark.

"I am simply using the nature of magic. I find it pleasant in that fact that you are undone by the evil you wield."

Nimueh chuckles a little, rattling her manacles as she shifts a little. "And I in the fact you have to use it to enact your revenge."

Her breath hitches unpleasantly when she hears the leather of the man's gloves slide onto the metal either side of her head. He must be leaning over her, although how he can see in this light, she doesn't know.

"Have you heard, Nimueh, of the new drug?" He whispers in her ear. His breath is warm on her neck, a parody of something romantic. She moves her head away as best she can, but his words resonate.

The new drug. It appeared five years ago, a thing named Purity. It is popular amongst the rich, models and politicians feast upon it, the newspapers reported orgies of sex and Purity – it shot up past cannabis and heroin and cocaine in popularity, addictiveness and the high.

More intense than an orgasm, she heard whispered on the streets, more of a thrill the kill. You become a god for the duration of its stay in your veins. You are invincible. You are ravenous.

You are magic.

"Pure magic," he continues, "pure magic concentrate." Nimueh closes her eyes, fearing his words. She knows what is coming, what he will tell her. She knows her fate and for the first time in the longest time, fear trills in her veins like a mermaid seducing her sailors.

"We drain you. We tear you open and we _drain_ you." He moves, she hears. Steady footsteps, not a falter amongst them. "It is not a pleasant experience." She can almost feel the smirk that dances across his face. "For you at least. But, never fear Nimueh, I have more planned for you than the extraction. You are going to live to suffer, to repent and then you are going to die."

Swift movement and once again his mouth is by her ear. "You let my wife die. Her only mercy was that it was painless. You shall not be granted the same clemency."

The moon cowers behind the misted clouds as agonized screams electrify the air.


	2. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer:**__ I do not own Merlin, dammit. *Sobs*. It belongs to BBC._

_**Notes: **__So yeah, this update is a little out of the blue I know, but I found some original writing that I found if I changed the name, would fit perfectly in this story so, here you go. An odd update. Kyrie Eleison will be updated soon, and 'Lust In Action' to if it stops giving me trouble._

_I have also added two more stories to my writing list – __Man and Mystery__: A Merlin version of 'The Phantom of The Opera (Musical Version, rather than book) and __Choking on Roses: __A full fantasy AU in which Arthur is a mercenary who has been charged to protect sheltered sacrifice Merlin (with a sequel planned)_

_And if anyone recognises how I write the dragon in this story, that's because I use the same idea in 'The Footman.' And I nicked a few lines from there as well, because I liked them. Lol. Deary me. And there interaction is like a more angsty version of the beginning of season two, when Merlin was all 'I really don't like you.'_

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><p><strong>Chapter one: Page of Cups<strong>

"_A lovely artistic child or teen."_

He wouldn't risk the lift. It stinks of old urine and stale sweat-soaked sex and is more likely to crush the unsuspecting rider to death in a manic freefall then safely deliver them to their chosen destination. Instead, Merlin ducks left, shoulders his way through the heavy fire doors and jumps three at a time down the stairs.

Stench-wise, the stairs are no better than the lift. Yellowish stains of piss and vomit stain the off-white walls, and darken the corners of the steps. Cigarette butts are piled in corners and shattered glass and fragments of bottles crunched underfoot. There is a used condom, withered and disgusting, in the corner as Merlin swings around to the next flight. There is the smell of old burgers from the local chip shop and the odd smashed chip here and there.

Merlin sidesteps a particularly nasty looking jagged slice of glass and leaps down the last few steps. He rubs at his nose with his fingers agitatedly and sniffs before flipping the hood of his overlarge jacket over his head and thrusting his hands into his pockets. He keeps his head down as he slips through the fire doors just behind the staircase and out into the chill of the night. He breathes in deeply; glad as usual to smell something other than musty waste and damp.

Out here, in the small parking lot, there is nothing but the freshness of evening and that odd smell of threatening rain that Merlin has always enjoyed. He slips into the shadows for the moment, dark eyes surveying the area from under his hood. The car park is empty of life as far as he can tell, with the exception of a tired looking mother hauling a push chair along with a slumbering baby and a noisily whinging four year old clinging to her jeans. The streets lights flicker pitifully, their glow of ugly orange light casting shadows on the cars.

Merlin sighs in relief. It is easy, he knows, to slip by the more unfavourable people and their questionable dealings – you just kept your eyes on your feet and scooted past without a noise. If you got stopped, you don't look up – unless demanded – and swear you know nothing of what they are asking you about. Then you run and don't return for a good few hours. He knows that, but it is so much easier to just avoid the dealings altogether and venture out when the dealers have disappeared.

He rubs at his nose again, before his gaze flicks back to the worn Nike trainers on his feet and focus only on their movement as he navigates the car park. He doesn't look up at passing footfalls or the raised voices or sounds of violence coming from the open windows of the flats he passes. It isn't worth it; the people around here are all head-cases. They have short fuses and wicked aim. Even Merlin himself has taken to carrying around a flick knife, simply because in these parts of town, it is safer. More than once had Merlin found himself in a do-or-die situation where magic as a defence was not an option.

He slips a hand out of his jacket pocket and grabs at his jeans pocket for reassurance. And sure enough, in his hand, through the rough fabric, he finds the oblong shape of safety. You can never be too careful in these parts.

Keeping his eyes peeled for any signs for danger, Merlin slips into the familiar shadows as he skirts along the pavements. He passes a few people, the smell of alcohol heavy on some and the blown pupils of the drugged obvious on others. When he turns and heads deeper into the slums, he gets propositioned by male and female hustlers alike, each with those coy smiles and ancient eyes. Merlin feels a certain pity for them that he doesn't like and is sure to never show. The whores are some of the most dangerous people on the street – they learn quicker than most the danger of being unarmed.

Merlin has accidently walked into one too many incidents where a customer has tried to take what they want without paying and just as many times has the prostitute fought back with a knife, or more memorably a forceful heel of a stiletto, in the gut of their attacker. In the latter instances, Merlin just continued on, eyes averted. That was how the streets were – each man for himself. On the former, he would help out with a wave of his hand and glow of his eyes. Always he left without a word as the prostitute emptied the johns' wallet and pilfered his valuables.

It's the least the bastards deserved.

Most prostitutes respect him enough now not to badger him too persistently to grace them with his cash in return for their services.

"Mers." Merlin jerks at the nickname. Only one used that nickname, and it was perhaps the nicest girl to ever grace the planet. He hesitates for a moment, debating, before he turns on his heel and backs up.

"Gwen." Such a sweet soul, large brown doe eyes gaze up at him from beneath the makeup that is both a mask and a shield. The petite woman is dressed in her usual leather mini skirt that had seen better days, a worn chequered shirt and knee boots that have seen better days. Merlin always has to bite his tongue around Gwen, because she isn't like the others – she's too kind and gentle and beautiful to be earning a petty penny on her back. She should be a Lady; she should be dressed in those pretty demure and elegant dresses of the rich that Merlin sometimes catches a glimpse of in thrown-away ladies' magazines. She should be so much more than what she is. And she probably would have been – if not a lady, then at least earning a respectable wage – if not for her fathers' murder before she was sixteen and her brothers' disappearance not long after. Not much a sixteen year old girl can do in this world, not when the social services do more harm than good and pimps are so suave and charming.

Merlin is still thankful he got her away from _that_ man. At least now she can say who, when and how much without a disgusting leech breathing down her neck and disciplining imaginary wrongs with his fists.

Merlin grits his teeth.

"How are you? I haven't seen you around so much."

Merlin shrugs, a little apologetically. "Things have been getting a little...risky, recently, what with the disappearances." He scrubs at his unshaven jaw. "Sorry, I'll visit more often." It isn't an empty promise. Merlin always has time for Gwen and money too (not in exchange for sexual favours, no matter what the other hustlers say), just to ease her way and make her paying rent not to difficult.

It's never enough. Of course it isn't, Merlin himself is barely earning enough to cover his own bills and food, but he gives what he can.

Gwen smiles kindly, an angel with her wings plucked and shorn. "I'd like that," she answers softly, "but only if you are sure you have the time."

"Always for you," he replies just as quietly and they share a smile.

"Alright, you be off Merlin. You have important things to be getting on with." Merlin stares at her a little longer, before pulling her into a tight, hard hug, all reassurance and love and courage.

He couldn't do what she does every night. She's braver then he could ever be and he is not afraid to admit this.

"Look after yourself," he says seriously into her hair, pressing a kiss to her forehead before he slips away from her hold, tugging his hood further over his head where it had slipped. There are a few catcalls and brief touches and a man that could've been either wounded or intoxicated by his walk, staggered into him. Merlin just sidesteps the man, clenching his fist in his pocket against the need to check up on the man and pushing forward.

Finally he gets to his destination. The heart of the slums is not a pretty place to be. The skyline is fractured with the shattered, hollowed out skeletons of houses, the brick work torn apart by weeds and the foundations rotten through and splintering. Rubbish and needles and the occasional passed out homeless guy or victim lay strewn across the potholed roads and pavements. Shadows move sly and sneaky as robbers and worse slip and slide through them like they are a part of them. The glint of a knife and the crack of a gun are not uncommon sights or sounds, and the brawls of men are guaranteed to end in homicide.

Even most crooked of police don't dare enter here. Thieves and murderers and rapists and the delusional are all that dare inhabit this area, lurking on dark corners like gaunt, horrible reapers with black toothed smiles and wicked eyes. Merlin tenses, muscles coiled and ready for a fight. It isn't often he will face anything here, even the crazed can sense the aura of _difference_ around him, especially as he lets his magic run rampant and sizzle around him like an electric current.

But sometimes not even that will discourage the determined.

He glances around himself and the shadows shiver with movement at the corner of his eyes, before he steps off the pavement and into the road. Ahead of him is a dilapidated house. The low brick wall is barely even there anymore and the wooden gate is hanging off its hinges, it creaks ominously in the wind. The grass beyond that is wild and overgrown, it brushes against Merlin's thighs, all nettles and clovers and damp from the recent rain. He shifts through it steadily, warily.

He doesn't want to go into the house, but he knows here is the only place they can all meet and be protected by more than just numbers. The door is flat on the floor in the doorway, kicked away many years ago and hasn't been moved since. There are still a few shards around the hinges that cling to the doorframe. The wood rocks as he walks over it and the first tendrils of smoke curl around him like a lover.

He grimaces. He doesn't bother looking through the other rooms; he just heads for the staircase, cautious despite knowing that magic holds the wood firm beneath him.

Magic is as fallible as the sorcerer who welded it.

As he ascends the smoke thickens. It lines his throat like dirt, clinging to his oesophagus and coating his lungs in tar. With each fall of his foot, the smoke tightens around his chest, labouring his lungs, cutting into his eyes and blocking his nose. The old panic rises in his throat as it always does as the atmosphere bears down on him like a giants' hand pressing him to the floor. He struggles, he gasps and chokes and coughs but still he proceeds. He tries to remind himself that it will pass, it is a test – a normal human would have been unconscious by now and most likely dead before anyone would stumble across the body (or devoured, if you consider just what creature lingers in this deformed halfway house). But still the panic claws at him, tears at him in the desperation of the dying and terrified. Tears stream down his face, his chest and lungs don't just burn anymore, they sear with agony, with _ – _

The intake of oxygen to his deprived body and brain is like a punch in the gut when he reaches the top of the second staircase. Merlin staggers a little, as he always does, falling heavily into the wall to support himself. Sharp, desperate gulps of air he swallows down, blessing every one.

The smoke is still thick around him but it doesn't bother him. He can see through it now, can _breathe_ through it. And when he does open his eyes, he is faced with a different face to the one he is used too.

Before the puppet had been a boy, around sixteen years of life, but this new one was a girl – a little girl, barely eight, if that.

Merlin wants to be sick. The bile is acidic in the back of his throat.

The girl gazes at him, or she would if her eyes had not been crudely sewn shut. She must have been a beautiful little girl when she was alive. Her now dirty blonde locks are lank with thick grime and grease, but once must have been such a pretty blonde, and tied back in bunches high on her head. Her skin is barely covering her skin and her bones nudge against the surface as if they have somehow outgrown her skin and her colour is an empty kind of grey. She is grotesque, really, an atrocity. She is missing her two front teeth when she smiles eerily at him, parting chapped and bitten-bloody lips, and Merlin shudders in horror at the hollowness of the gesture.

The dragons' newest puppet, forever a child with the consciousness of that parasitic, eon-old dragon.

"Welcome Merlin." The voice is high pitched as a little girls' voice should be, but has an edge of brimstone and smoke that belies her nature. "You took your time."

Merlin narrows his eyes. "When will you have enough, dragon? When will you tire of picking and choosing your vessels – they... Christ, she's barely _eight_! Have you no heart?"

The puppet tilts her head in a curiously human gesture but Merlin is too incensed to notice. "You do not wish for me to answer that."

"No, I want you to stop."

"They come to me," the girl – the dragon – says plainly, but with an underlying scorn. "When their families leave them, they hear me and come to me. You shouldn't pity my children, Warlock, they die in the arms of one who cares."

Merlin makes a disgusted noise. "You don't care," he spits, venom dripping from the words.

The girl shrugs with that same empty, creepy smile. "No need for them to know that."

Merlin closes his eyes against the vision of the dead girl animated by the mind of a dragon stuck between this world and whatever lies beyond. He closes his eyes against the monstrosity that is luring a hapless, innocent child into ones' lair, sneaking into their minds through treachery and false trust before ripping away all consciousness and inserting oneself there, as if the place was one deserved.

And he steels himself against it.

"Let's just get on with it," Merlin bites out, looking over the girls head and ignoring the grubby hand offered to him innocently and the cruel, mocking laugh that follows when he skirts around it and darts into the room ahead.


End file.
